


Knit the ravell'd sleeve of care

by Amberdreams



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-31
Updated: 2014-01-31
Packaged: 2018-01-10 17:05:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,105
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1162294
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amberdreams/pseuds/Amberdreams
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean meets up with twelve year old Sam in a wood, where he finds himself in the middle of a hunt from 1995 which seems to have gone badly wrong. But everything is not as it seems…</p>
            </blockquote>





	Knit the ravell'd sleeve of care

Betas: blackrabbit42 & jennytork Thanks for your helpful suggestions and advice my dears! All remaining errors, be they of judgement or typos, are mine own.  
Warnings: Mild spoilers for Season 9, Episode 7 Bad Boys

  


Written as a pinch hit for spn_reversebang for this prompt  
[](http://photobucket.com/)  
There is no artist masterpost, as unfortunately the mods and I haven't been able to get any response from [](http://foolsdance.livejournal.com/profile)**[foolsdance](http://foolsdance.livejournal.com/)**

** Knit the ravell’d sleeve of care **

_ I have come to the borders of sleep,   _  
_ The unfathomable deep  _  
_ Forest where all must lose  _  
_ Their way, however straight,   _  
_ Or winding, soon or late;  _  
_ They cannot choose.  _  
Edward Thomas, Lights Out

 

Dean remembers this.  He remembers telling that crazy fucker Gordon about it too … _So. I pick up this crossbow. And I hit that ugly sucker with a silver-tipped arrow right in his heart._

Yeah.  1995, hunting for a yenaldooshi with Dad.  And there the skin walker is, just like he remembers. Holy shit. It’s the biggest freaking coyote Dean has ever seen.  It’s sprawled out on the grass, dark blood seeping from the wound in its flank, matting its silvery fur.

Except this isn’t right, because there’s no sign of the crossbow Dean had used back in ’95 to shoot the creature, and this wound has no bolt sticking out of it.  Instead, Dean’s holding an old colt 45 that he doesn’t recognize.  And where John Winchester should be, there’s Sammy standing by his side.  A Sam only twelve years old, still small enough to tuck in under Dean’s elbow.  Sammy, who should have been waiting for them, safe in the Impala, studying for some trig test at school the next day.  Dean remembers how Sam had been going on about it, like a test was something fun to do, better than kissing a girl, or hitting a bulls eye.  The kid had been crazy like that.

Is crazy like that.

The sun is warm on the bare skin of Dean’s arms where it dapples through golden leaves, and the air is scented with something that reminds Dean of summer, even though the leaves are turning.  It’s unseasonably warm for somewhere that looks like New England in the fall, and that’s another thing Dean doesn’t remember about this day.  This setting is all wrong.  In ’95 this encounter took place in desert country, Navajo lands.  It had been nighttime then, moonlit and cold.

He has no time to puzzle this out, because the yenaldooshi is stirring.  Of course it is.  A bullet would be next to useless, even if it was silver, and Dean has a sick feeling in his belly that this colt he’s holding won’t be loaded with silver anyhow.  This clearly isn’t that kind of gig – you know, one where everything goes as it should.

“Dean?” Sam says, and Dean can hear the tremor of fear in his little brother’s voice.  It does something to his heart, kind of twists his insides.  He grabs Sam and shoves the kid behind him, shielding his brother with his body while he fires another couple of rounds into the monster.  Maybe that will slow it down a little, buy them some time.

Sam fires too, turns out he’s got a handgun instead of a schoolbook in this scenario, go figure…and the combined barrage of bullets makes the yenaldooshi stagger, bleeding from several wounds now.  Dean turns and pushes Sam, into the trees.

“Come on, Sammy,” he yells. “Run!”

Sam obeys – this younger version blessedly less likely to argue the toss with Dean than his older self probably would – and Dean starts to follow, crashing through tangled branches and slip sliding on the muddy, leaf strewn ground. Though only a few seconds can have passed, Sam’s slim figure is already lost from Dean’s view, swallowed up in the thick grey mist that is rising up between the dark trunks of the trees.  Dean loses a stride as the mist gathers around him, leaching all the warmth from the sunlight.

What the fuck?

The hesitation is a mistake.  The yenaldooshi is on him in a flash, sharp claws scoring deep furrows in Dean’s leg.  He stumbles, fingers sinking into the rich smelling earth as he gropes for some purchase, the colt flying from his hand. Dean rolls himself over only to be greeted by the sight of the skin walker’s pointed yellow teeth snapping down, strings of saliva flying.  He thrusts his left forearm up in a desperate attempt to stop the monster chowing down on his face, then howls loud as any wolf as those jagged teeth pierce his skin.

Dean can feel the yenaldooshi’s growling vibrate up his arm as it grinds down on bone and flesh, and Dean’s vision is sparking with the pain until he is panting as loud as any dog himself.  He strains to keep the creature at bay, his free hand buried in the ruff of fur around the skin changer’s neck, but his right arm is already shaking with the strain.  Weakness is overtaking him as first his radius, then his ulna snap with an audible crack that turns his stomach.  Blood is spattering all around, and he’s only too aware that most of it is his.  A kind of detached horror washes over him as he realizes that any time now the yenaldooshi is going to gnaw his whole forearm off – and then what will he do?  What use would he be to Dad and Sammy with only one hand?

Even as the thought crosses his mind, the creature releases his arm, which drops nerveless and shredded to his side.  Before he can savor the brief relief, the yenaldooshi turns its attention to Dean’s vulnerable mid-section, and he is just not strong enough to stop it. His right arm muscles are burning, his left arm is a raging, bleeding mess and his thighs are going numb from the weight of the monster standing on them and he’s going to die.  The yenaldooshi shifts, pulls free from his grip, and he can hear as well as feel it when its teeth rake their way down his stomach, tearing into his abdominal muscles.

He remembers Lilith laughing and the hellhounds slavering and Sam.  Sam crying.

He remembers that he shouldn’t be here at all.

Grey mist curls around him, obscuring everything except the agony of dying. Again.

And all he can think is – this is not how it’s supposed to be.

**0x0x0x0**

Sam had only taken a couple of steps into the trees before he realized Dean was no longer beside him.  He stood still, listening intently, but could hear nothing at all, not even leaves rustling in the breeze.  The dense fog that shrouded the woodland seemed to be deadening all sound as well as reducing their flashlights a waste of battery power.  Dammit!  He’d told Dean they needed to stick closer than close.  Going into the woods like this not knowing what they were dealing with was foolish at best, but because people had been going missing every other night for the last couple of weeks, Dean hadn’t been willing to wait for someone else from the town of Somnia, Connecticut, to die just because Sam wanted to do more research.

In the end, Sam had thrown up his hands and acquiesced. Neither of them had been comfortable about delaying further, knowing that the last person to disappear only one night ago had been a six year old girl.  If there was any chance they could find her still alive, they had to take it.

Each of the missing people had vanished from their beds, apparently having gone out into these woods without even bothering to get dressed into outdoor clothes.  So far the bodies had been found two or three days later, each curled up under the trees as if in sleep.  None of them had a mark on them and the coroner’s reports had been unable to find a common cause of death.  Each had been found in a different part of the forest, and there were frustratingly few clues to link the victims, either to each other or to anything else.

With no evidence of anything supernatural that they could recognize, Sam had just made sure they both went into the woods armed with virtually one of everything out of the Impala’s trunk – silver, hex bags, cold iron, salt and herbs of every description.

“I feel like a freaking pack mule, Sammy,” Dean complained, as Sam insisted on adding a small bag of goofer dust to the rest of the arcane items already secreted in his jacket.  Dean flung out his arms in defeat, looking as if he was begging for a hug, and Sam very nearly obliged him, just to see Dean’s face get all disconcerted and pink.  Dean was kind of adorable when he got flustered. Sam hadn’t, of course. Winchester hugs were generally reserved for coming back from the dead.

However now Dean wasn’t being at all adorable, but fucking _irritating_ and _missing_.

“Dean!” Sam tried hissing it, as quietly as he could.

Nothing.  Which in one way was good – no monster jumping out of the gloom to get him, but in another way was frustrating – no Dean.

Sam tried waving the flashlight round again, even though he knew it was worse than useless.  The beam lit nothing but the mist, reflecting the light back in a diffuse blanket that obscured more than it revealed. He snapped it, off cursing his own stupidity under his breath when he had to wait a few moments before his eyes readjusted to the darkness. Luckily nothing evil was near enough to take advantage of his temporary blindness, but he was none the wiser as to what to do next.

How far into the woods had they come before he’d lost sight of his brother? Sam wasn’t sure.  They’d been walking for maybe half an hour, and Dean had been at his side one moment, then the next, he wasn’t. Peering into the darkness, off to his right, Sam thought for a brief moment that he saw the mist glow a faint electric blue.

It didn’t look like a flashlight, but that seemed as good a direction as any, Sam thought. Gripping his Taurus in one hand, the demon-killing knife in the other, he felt his way as stealthily as he could through the trees. He hadn’t gone more than three strides when his foot hit against something that gave, like moss or rotten wood, and he nearly fell flat on his face. Fortunately, the offending object broke his fall, though he lost his grip on the knife in the process.

It was while groping round for the precious knife that Sam realized the obstacle he’d tripped over was not a log or moss covered rock. It was a body.  His fingers tangled in damp cloth, something soft like flannel, maybe, and it was with a growing chill that had nothing to do with the low air temperature that Sam fumbled for his flashlight again.

It wasn’t Dean.

Sam shone the light down on what had to be the missing child.  Like the reports had described with the other victims, Becca West was curled up as if sleeping, her head cushioned on one arm and thumb firmly in her mouth.  Her exposed skin was cold and clammy with condensation, and for one awful moment, Sam found himself hoping the child was dead, so that he could leave her and carry on searching for Dean. Then his pressing fingers felt it.  Thready and weak but unmistakable – a pulse. Thrusting down his irrational need to find his brother, Sam scooped the kid up, settling her slight weight inside his jacket in an attempt to share some of his body warmth with her.

As he half ran, half fast-walked back to civilization, Sam comforted himself with the thought that he didn’t know for sure that Dean was in trouble. The separation could be totally accidental (though why hadn’t Dean texted Sam in that case?) and Dean was probably just wandering lost in the woods ( _I’m not Little Red Riding Hood, Sammy, I don’t get lost_ ) still looking for little Becca West.  One handed, Sam pulled out his cell and awkwardly texted Dean.

_Got kid, taking her back. where r u?_

The grateful tears of Becca’s mother did nothing to assuage Sam’s fear when there was no reply from Dean.

**0x0x0x0**

“Dean! Dean, wake up.”

He cracks open one eye cautiously, waiting for the pain to kick in. When it doesn’t, Dean risks opening the other. The first thing that swims into view is Sam’s face, pinched and anxious and still very, very young.  Shit.  Dean’s hands are clasped tight over his stomach and he risks a glance down, fully expecting to see his own guts spilling, glistening, through his fingers.  There’s nothing in his hands but bunched up cloth.

His left arm is aching like it had when he’d broken it falling out of a tree when he was thirteen, but there is no white bone or red blood, no sign anywhere on his body or clothing of the savaging he’s just taken from the yenaldooshi.

He snaps into full alert at the thought of the creature, and sits up so quickly he narrowly misses head butting Sam, who’s hovering anxiously right inside Dean’s personal space.

“Where is it? Where’d it go?” Dean looks around wildly. They’re still in those same woods, but in the place of the grey mist and dark shadows the scene has reset to the bright sunshine and dappled shade from before the skin walker’s attack. There’s no sign of anything more menacing than a grey squirrel, which whips up the nearest tree the moment Dean lays eyes on it. He’s wound so tight he nearly jumps out of his skin when Sam’s small hand touches his arm.

Sam leaps back in alarm and Dean feels like a complete dick.

“Sorry. Sorry, Sammy. But where did the yenaldooshi go? And what happened to me?”

“A yenaldooshi? I don’t understand, Dean. We were doing our daily target practice, like Dad told us to, then you suddenly keeled over holding your stomach like you had the cramps or something,”

Sam’s face creases up into that familiar concerned look that never changes whatever age his little brother is, and Dean shakes his head. Maybe he’s going crazy. He gets slowly to his feet and looks down at himself.

No, he’s still his older self, when by rights with Sam - what, twelve? – Dean should be no more than sixteen. So either he’s time travelled again, or there’s something else going on here that Dean can’t fathom. Dean is starting to lean towards the latter, as surely if a Dean in his thirties suddenly turned up in the past, Sam would at least freaking _notice_. And besides, if Dean has time travelled to wherever the hell here is, where’s the younger Dean who is supposed to be here?

“Oh man. I’m getting a fucking headache.” Dean mutters. Then he realizes that it’s actually true, his head is starting to throb like he’d been on the biggest bender ever the night before, or had another concussion.

At this point, Sam must decide Dean is messing with him, because his concern turns to that quick anger Sam’s always excelled at.

“Are you drunk?”

“What? No!” What the hell? Why would Sam at this age think Dean’s been drinking? But Sam’s stomping off towards the edge of the trees, stubbornness in every line of that slight figure, from the set of the shoulders to the fists clenched by his sides.

“Sam, wait!”

Sam shakes his head but halts nonetheless, allowing Dean to catch up. Sam doesn’t turn around so Dean has to circle round to see his face. Which is streaked with tears. Shit. Dean grabs Sam by both arms, concern banishing all thoughts of his own troubles, even though this Sam surely can’t be real. Dean’s responses are so hardwired into his brother it isn’t even funny.

“What is it? What’s wrong?”

“I just had two months at Bobby’s with Dad telling me you were lost on that hunt, not knowing where you were or what had happened or even if you were alive and now you’re back and Dad’s gone again and you’re just picking up where we left off like nothing ever happened and I…” Sam runs out of breath choking on a sob and Dean finally takes a breath too. It’s more of a gasp really, as he’d been unable to get any oxygen while Sam’s words had just poured out in a bitter stream. So this is where/when they are.  It must be just after Dean got back from Sonny’s kids’ home.

A time of more secrets and lies. Always with the secrets and lies.

Well, fuck it. Dean doesn’t know what’s going on, or why he’s here, but he’s not doing this the same way again. He pulls Sam in and wraps both arms around his little brother’s oh so skinny frame and just holds on until he’s no longer sure who’s comforting whom. He’s bent nearly double, his nose buried in Sam’s hair and this might be a dream or a flashback, but Dean’s nostrils flare as he breathes in the familiar scent. Warm skin and salty tears and shampoo and something that is pure Sam. Not allowing himself to overthink this, Dean starts murmuring his belated apologies into Sam’s ear, words flowing with an ease he never felt in the real world.

“I’m sorry, Sammy. I should have tried to call you. I should never have listened to Dad when he ordered me to keep quiet and suck it up. I should have told you where I was, that I was okay. Leaving you in the dark, that was wrong.”

First Sam’s sobs ease, then his body stiffens with a rage Dean can feel tensing every sinew, then finally, when Dean doesn’t let go, doesn’t stop talking, Sam relaxes and his thin arms finally sneak tentatively round Dean’s waist. Something deep inside Dean breaks loose at that, a huge chunk of ice sloughing off a glacier, floating away to melt in warmer seas.

**0x0x0x0**

It must have been nearly an hour before Sam finally extricated himself from Becca’s grateful parents and the newspaper journalist, who’d scented blood like a shark and was circling for a story.  He managed to fob off the Somnia law enforcement by flashing his FBI badge so he could slip away from the commotion and return to the woods to look for Dean. He was running on fumes at this point, fueled by fear and anger and not much else. He’d been awake for over twenty-four hours now, and he couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten anything. His energy reserves were depleted but he didn’t care. As he watched the sky lightening in the east, he didn’t even know if daylight meant his time had run out. Not knowing exactly what they were hunting was not only frustrating but dangerous, for both Sam as the hunter but more especially for Dean, if his brother had, as Sam feared, become the creature’s next target.

Sam nearly jumped out of his skin when a voice came from by his left shoulder.

“Problem, agent?”

Sam slowly took his hand off his gun when he saw it was one of the deputies from the town.  The younger one with a Mediterranean cast to his features, Thaddeus or Theo or some such, Sam hadn’t really been paying attention when the introductions had been flying around yesterday. Sam had talked to the Sheriff while Dean had questioned the two deputies.

“I don’t know, maybe,” Sam said, non-committal.

“Lost your partner?” Thaddeus or Theo asked, and Sam made up his mind. Two could cover more ground quicker than one, and time was of the essence with the sun coming up.

“Yes, I need some help searching for him. You up for it?”

Thaddeus or Theo nodded. “Sure,” he said, held out his hand for Sam to shake. “I’m Ike Theo, by the way, in case you missed the introductions back there.”

Sam grasped the guy’s hand briefly and gestured to the woods, impatient to get going. “Agent Renko.”

Theo just smiled. “I know.”

The two men slipped like shadows into the darkness under the trees.

When Sam found his brother pre dawn was giving way to full dawn light, and Sam had lost sight of Deputy Theo somewhere along the way. His stomach swooped uncomfortably as he absorbed Dean’s posture of repose, exactly like Becca West and the other victims. Sam fell heavily to his knees, groping fingers feeling for a pulse for the second time that night, and the sense of relief was so strong when he found it that he was glad he was already kneeling down. Unlike little Becca, Dean’s skin was still warm, but Sam’s relief was short-lived, dashed when there was no response to his touch.

“Dean. Wake up, man,” Sam said, gripping Dean’s shoulder and shaking him gently, then more firmly as Dean remained unresponsive and inert. But wait a second. Sam leaned in closer, turning his brother’s face into the growing light of day. Was that, were those…tears? Sam reached out with one tentative finger and brushed his knuckle across the delicate freckled skin under one eye. Moisture. Tears were leaking, slowly, heart-wrenchingly, from under Dean’s closed lids.

“What are you dreaming about, Dean?” Sam murmured. This wasn’t like Dean’s normal repose. Sam was all too familiar with his brother’s nightmares from Hell and beyond, knowing their shape as he knew his own. He didn’t recall ever seeing Dean actually cry in his sleep before. Yet in spite of the tears, Dean looked peaceful. It was unsettling.

“You found him! Is he alive?”

Ike Theo’s voice in his ear made Sam jump for the second time that day. Heart pounding, Sam silently cursed the guy’s stealthy ninja skills. Sam got to his feet, subtly interposing himself as a barrier between the Somnia detective and his prone brother.

“Yeah, he’s alive, no thanks to you.”

Ike’s face twisted into puzzlement for a moment, but on meeting Sam’s hard stare, he dropped the pretense and smiled. Shadows like smoke unfurled at Ike’s back, a memory of wings perhaps, and Sam wondered briefly if he’d made a mistake in his diagnosis about the nature of this monster. It would be highly inconvenient to find Ike was actually an angel.

“You are very perceptive, Agent Renko. What gave me away?” Ike said.

“No one thing in particular,” Sam said, never taking his eyes off the creature. “ Partly the way all your victims seemed to have died in their sleep, but mostly it was  intuition.”

“I don’t kill these people, you know. I just shape their dreams based on what’s inside their own heads, and they choose whether or not to return to life. Most seem to choose the latter, for whatever reason.”

“So who are you exactly? Morpheus?”

“Oh please. My inconstant brothers left for Elysium a long time ago. I alone remain here on earth, doing my job as I was meant to. How typical that it is not the name of the faithful that is remembered. Know that I am Icelos, son of Somnus and Gaea, mortal. You should bow before me.”

“Yeah, right. Not going to happen.”

Sam grinned. These petty godlets were so predictable. He leaped forward and grasping Icelos by one shoulder, he pulled out the sharpened branch he’d had hidden in his jacket. Before Icelos could react, Sam punched the improvised stake up under the Greek god’s sternum and deep into his chest. It could have looked to an outside observer as if Sam held Icelos in a passionate embrace, were it not for the terrible screaming, cut off abruptly when the stake pierced the god’s heart.

“Winchesters bow to nobody, douchebag.”

Dean would have been proud.

Sam let the body drop to the ground like a sack of flour instantly forgotten. All his attention focused back onto Dean. He fully expected his brother to be showing signs of waking straight away, now the god’s magic was destroyed.

Sam knelt back down next to Dean and waited. His expectation was crushed when Dean didn’t stir.

**0x0x0x0**

Something strange is happening.

Though Dean supposes strange is all a matter of opinion when you’ve been torn apart one minute and completely healed the next, and you’re currently stuck in some sort of hyper-realistic illusion with your kid brother as he was over fifteen years ago. Dean hates to think what a shrink would make of all this, especially this part right now, because kid-Sam seems to be growing like he’s eaten a Mario Super Mushroom. Dean suppresses an almost hysterical giggle at the thought.

Dean’s arms are being forced wider in increments where they encircle Sam. Where his fingers had previously been clasped around small, bony ribs with a slight covering of puppy fat, he can feel hard ridges of muscle forming. He wants to pull away, but this older version of Sam is still clinging just as tight as he had when he was a needy kid, and soon enough those skinny arms are locked into bands of steel and Dean can’t move.

“Relax, Dean.” Sam’s voice rumbles through Dean’s body like distant thunder. “It’s okay, everything’s going to be okay.”

And even though he knows he should be more wary, not knowing where this dream-state has come from, Dean feels himself obeying Sam, and lets the tension go. He relaxes into Sam’s embrace, unresisting when Sam’s hand moves to cup his face, turning it so Sam’s forehead rests on Dean’s, and their noses brush. Dean can feel the moist warmth of Sam’s breath puff against his lips.

“Dean,” Sam says, and it’s as if Sam is breathing for him.  Every breath is synchronized with Sam’s, and where it should feel gross and weird, it just feels right.

In, out. In, out.

Each out-breath is an apology, a letting go.  Each in-breath is forgiveness, understanding. Every breath is full of caring, a kind of healing and a homecoming.

“Dean. You can wake up now.”

**0x0x0x0**

Dean opened his eyes. It took a moment to focus; his brain was sloshing around inside his skull as if his head was a boat in choppy waters. It was disorientating. What the hell had happened to him?

Then, finally, Sam’s face resolved out of a blur of colours. His little brother looked careworn and worried, his face too thin and sharp after the soft curves of twelve-year-old Sam, and somewhere deep inside, part of Dean mourned for the loss of that innocence, without understanding why.

Embarrassingly, Dean’s eyes were filled with tears that he seemed to be too weak to stop. Emotionally he was shot to pieces, and physically, he wasn’t much better. He couldn’t even lift a hand to brush them away, but either Sam didn’t notice, or he was doing a good job of pretending he didn’t, which was a kindness Dean probably didn’t deserve. Sam got an arm under Dean’s shoulder and helped Dean to his feet.

Dean was a cooked noodle, couldn’t even get his feet to land flat on the ground, dragging them after him as Sam started to walk them back to civilization.

“Wait, wait,” Dean said, tugging weakly on Sam’s sleeve. “Did you find the kid?”

“Yeah, she should hopefully be waking up right now, same as you,” Sam said as he maneuvered them past a body stretched out in the grass. It appeared to have a significant chunk of tree sticking out of its chest.

 “Who’s that?”

“That’s our fugly. Dean, meet Icelos, last of the Oneiroi.”

“That skinny dude killed all those people? Huh.” Dean stared for a couple of seconds at the ex monster. He aimed his weakest, girliest kick ever at the dead creature’s leg, even though he had to cling onto Sam to stop himself toppling over in the process.

“Ownayroy? What the fuck’s that then? Oh, you know what, I don’t really care. He was the last, you ganked him and that’s what matters. Nice work, Sammy.”

Sam snorted a laugh into Dean’s neck, making him shiver.

“Yeah, thanks, Dean. And nice work from you too. I never realized you were so good at sleeping on the job.”

“Hey, fuck you! I’ll have you know I made first class bait to draw out that whatever-the-hell-it-was.”

“Oneiroi. They were the Greek spirits of sleep and dreams, Dean.”

“Really?” Dean was weak as a kitten and fighting off a headache combined with a lingering sense of sadness, so teasing little brother seemed like the only logical course of action. Attack being the best defense and all. “So I guess that makes you Macbeth, then eh?”

Sam stopped walking and twisted awkwardly to stare incredulously down at Dean, who barely upright and trying to pretend he wasn’t stuck on Sam’s brawny arm like a velcroed rag doll.

“What? Macbeth was the dude who murdered sleep, right?” Dean said with a grin. Sam carried on staring, but Dean could see the corners of his eyes creasing where suppressed laughter mixed with genuine concern.

“Who are you and what have you done with my brother?”

“Fuck off, I’ve got culture. I’m a man of letters too, you know.”

Now Sam was smiling too, and it was glorious. He returned to hauling Dean’s ass back to the Impala, easily taking most of Dean’s weight as they went.

“Oh yes, I’ve seen your idea of culture. It usually involves hentai and a lot of gasping.”

Dean huffed in protest at the slur, momentarily lost for a quick retort, and felt Sam nod.

“That’s more like you,” Sam said. “Always so eloquent.”

“Yeah, well, you’d be eloquent if you’d just spent the last however many hours sleep-whammied by a ony roy.”

“Oneiroi, Dean! And the singular is Oneiros.”

“Whatever.”

There was silence for a few steps, then Sam hit Dean with his best shot.

“You know this makes you the fairytale princess, right? A real sleeping beauty. So, which do you prefer, Aurora or Snow White?”

“Fuck you very much…”

He yanked on Sam’s arm in sudden horror. “Hey, wait a goddam minute. You didn’t kiss me to wake me up, did you?”

“Dude! No!  Ew, gross, Dean.”

Dean basked in the warmth of their continued bickering all the way back to the car. It was more comfort than he’d felt for years, and he wrapped it round himself like a blanket.

**End**

**Author's Note:**

>   
> ****  
>  Author’s note
> 
> : ICELOS, the son of Somnus, was brother of Morpheus and one of the Oneiroi. He was believed to shape the dreams which came to man, whence he derived his name.   
>  
> 
>   
> Sam’s FBI alias is from Arkady Renko, detective in Gorky Park by Martin Cruz Smith. (Though it could also be from Officer Andrew Renko, Hill Street Blues…)  
>  
> 
>   
> The best documented Skin walker beliefs are those of the Navajo yenaldooshi. The yenaldooshi are evil human beings who have gained supernatural power by murdering a close relative. The creature travels by night, spreading misery and desecrating holy things. The yenaldooshi is also said to have the power to assume the form of a coyote or other animal.  
> 


End file.
